


Reyes and Rasputin Find a Forever-Home, At Last

by beetle



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, But he's a better man than he was, Cats, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Even the cat realizes before they do, F/F, F/M, Failboats In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Liam and Sidera Matchmake, M/M, Reyder, Reyes Has a PAST, Reyes may not be a good man yet, Reyes-centric, Sara is GOALS, Scott and Reyes are the only ones who don't realize they're in love, Scott is All Heart, Vetra is Leggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:32:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: When Reyes Vidal opens the door to the apartment he shares with his two roommates, he expects to confront a lost pizza delivery person or hapless neighbor. He finds . . . something else entirely. Or: Scott is a soft-touch, Sara is GOALS, and Reyes has turned over a new leaf. Also, there’s a cat. Sorry about the title. Fluff, angst, and a happy ending . . .I promise. . . .





	Reyes and Rasputin Find a Forever-Home, At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. All-human. Except for the cat, of course. Fluff, angst, humor, and happy endings abound.

 

 

When Reyes Vidal opens the door to the apartment he shares with his two roommates, he expects to confront a lost pizza delivery person or hapless neighbor. He finds . . . something else entirely.

 

“Okay, yeah, but, hear me out,” Scott Ryder continues, as if picking up a prior conversation. He’s grinning big and wide and white—the most shit-eating grin Reyes has ever seen the younger man wear, and that’s certainly saying something—and holding out a large, fluffy, disgruntled-looking white Persian cat toward Reyes. “They were gonna _euthanize_ _him_ because it’s been ninety-six days and he’s been brought back, like, three separate times because he’s a bit . . . um, scratchy with people? And he’s got some, uh, medical issues, including a deviated septum and kitty-IBS, which means he’s kind of a snore- and shit-machine—but he’s _real_ smart and has _all_ his shots and his name is _Rasputin_! I mean, how cool is that?!”

 

Scott’s big, dark eyes are almost literal exclamation points in his boyish, sharp-featured, doofy-cute face. His straight, inky hair is, as always, wall-socket spiky around said face, his eyebrows waggling up and down in excitement.

 

In Scott’s hands, held up under his forelegs, Rasputin sizes up Reyes with pale, somewhat malevolent blue eyes and hisses. Reyes darts back into the apartment a few steps when Scott holds the cat closer, and it swipes out at his face. The animal’s hind legs scrabble in thin air for purchase while the forelegs still scrabble for Reyes.

 

“Holy balls, he _likes_ you!” Scott exclaims, pulling the cat closer to himself for cuddles, at which the cat looks fairly alarmed, though not nearly as malevolently-minded. “Raspy _likes_ you, Rey! Yes, he _does_! My Angry Persian _wikes his Weyes_!”

 

Reyes, still having said nothing—and _capable_ of saying pretty much the same, as he witnesses this display—watches Scott cuddle and coo and kiss the cat, which now looks more embarrassed and put-upon, than anything. It’s clearly realized the futility of struggling or maiming its way free of Scott’s loving arms.

 

And Reyes, unwilling to be less perceptive than an overbred cat, merely sighs and stands aside, waving his roomie into their apartment. After living with Scott and his twin sister, Sara, for nearly two years, _Reyes_ has learned more than a few lessons about the futility of _arguing_ with a _Ryder_ when it comes to certain things.

 

Apparently, one of those things is evil-minded fleabags with intestinal disorders.

 

As Scott all but dances into the apartment, still cuddling the resigned cat, Reyes—also feeling resigned—sighs and shuts the door behind them, locking it. He knows not to expect _either_ necessity to happen if it’s left to Scott, even when there _isn’t_ some angry fluffball taking his easily-shifted attention.

 

“Charming, Ryder,” Reyes says, leaning on the door and watching his less-sensible roomie make for the couch. Said roomie flops down with a contented sigh and continues to wibble and coo at the sullen feline like it’s a baby. A very not-cute one. “If you want that cat so bad, _you’re_ the one who has to square it with Sara. _Without_ my help.”

 

Unfazed, Scott turns his big, glowing smile on Reyes who, as usual, has to look away and clear his throat before he says or does something . . . revealing in response.

 

“That’s entirely copacetic, Rey! ‘Cause Auntie Sara’s gonna _love_ this fluffy guy! Isn’t she, Raspy-Waspy? Auntie Sara’s just gonna _wuv oos_!”

 

Rather horrified, Reyes can only shake his head as Scott demeans both himself and a dumb animal with his behavior. That, and he’s amazed the cat hasn’t tried to claw _Scott’s_ face off, too.

 

 _Well, if the cat doesn’t, then Sara probably will,_ he thinks, and rolls his eyes as Scott smooches Rasputin’s nose. Though, for the first time in his life, Reyes finds himself jealous of a cat’s snout. _Or, more likely, she’ll tackle him, choke him out, then call animal control when he loses consciousness. Either way, it certainly promises to be a show._

 

Reyes finds himself fighting a smirk. It’s _always_ a show, living with the Ryder twins. Despite being relatively similar in looks and size, which is to say compact and muscular, with short, spiky hair, Scott and Sara Ryder are polar opposites in personality. He’s frenetic, she’s laconic; he’s gullible, she’s cynical; he’s sentimental, she’s pragmatic; he enthuses, she seethes; he’s an open book, she’s a locked diary written in something Turing couldn’t crack; he’s a vegetarian who loves animals, and she . . . loves animals, too . . . especially if they’re on a plate and smothered in steak sauce.

 

Like his mother, before him, Scott Ryder is—or will be, in less than a year—a veterinarian.

 

Like her father before _her_ , _Sara_ Ryder is—or will be, in less than a year—entering law enforcement with her degree in Criminal Justice.

 

And, really, the only animals _Reyes_ has ever known her to express any sort of admiration or fondness about—which weren’t in burger- or cutlet-form, that is—are K9 officers, seeing-eye dogs, and service animals.

 

So, the introduction of Sara Ryder to Rasputin the Angry Persian promises to be nothing, if not . . . interesting.

 

“. . . and Daddy’s gonna get oo a sweater _and_ booties! And the booties’re gonna be red, and the sweater’s gonna be blue, and it’s gonna say _Daddy’s Pretty Boy!_ on it in yellow letters, and—”

 

Unable to fight the smirk any longer, Reyes turns his back on the disgusting tableau—the cat honestly looks as if it’s about to throw up on Scott’s face, and Reyes wouldn’t even blame it for doing so, under such a saccharine assault—and drifts into the kitchen.

 

Three minutes later, a quickly, but perfectly-made Tom Collins in one hand and a bag of microwave popcorn in the other, he emerges, glances at a still-cooing Scott and the damn cat—which looks almost as if it’s in physical pain, now—then makes his way to his bedroom, tuning out Scott’s perpetual praise and lavished love.

 

For both are a waste on such an undeserving, ingrate of a furball. Why, if Scott wanted to kiss and coo, snuggle and pet, hug and dress _him, Reyes_ would certainly _not_ look so annoyed, let alone _complain_. . . .

 

. . . about the first five things, anyway.

 

Although . . . getting told he was a _pretty boy_ and a belly rub would be _entirely_ worth being subjected to _Scott’s_ horrible fashion sense and no-holds-barred displays of affection.

 

#

 

Reyes, of course, due to his own skill at making mixed drinks and his exhaustion so close to the taking of his Bar Exam, drifts into a sound sleep at his desk and doesn’t wake up until dawn.

 

His face is stuck by dried drool to some of his notes and, after he’s peeled those notes off his cheek and chin, he levers his aching, stiff body up out of his swiveling chair, stretches out the worst of the kinks, and steps out of his bedroom.

 

He briefly debates showering and shaving before breakfast, then as usual, gives up on the idea with an apathetic grunt. From the sound of the shower running, the bathroom’s already _occupado_. And, anyway, it’s not as if anyone else is likely to be up to see him, now—since Scott’s a late sleeper—except. . . .

 

“You look like hell, Vidal,” a half-expected voice notes gruffly when Reyes shuffles into the kitchen. He stops in the entryway, scratching at his stubble and blinking groggily, half-certain he’s still asleep.

 

Sitting at the counter, as usual, systematically demolishing a big bowl of some disgustingly sugary and nauseatingly colorful cereal, Sara Ryder is also staring grimly at the back of the cereal box, as if at a suspect. In one hand is a spoon, shuttling future dental problems into her mouth. The other hand . . . is absently scratching the undefended stomach of an unfortunately familiar cat.

 

The Persian is on his back next to the cereal box, legs in the air, purring as if his life depended on it, his pale-blue eyes closed in apparent ecstasy. His forepaws are batting at Sara’s bony wrist like it’s a ball of yarn.

 

“I’m certain I’m as handsome and charming about the face as ever,” Reyes says dryly, yawning. Sara snorts, and shovels in another mouthful of cereal and almond milk, and replies.

 

“Eh. Even at your worst, you’re better-looking than most people’s best. But for _you_? Nah, you look beat to hell, son.” Sara’s shrewd eyes flick up from the box of cereal for a moment, then back. “Fuckin’ law school is some fuckin’ _bullshit_.”

 

Reyes snorts, too, but doesn’t disagree. Instead, he makes his way to the fridge and opens it. Stares inside with complete incomprehension for twenty-eight seconds, then reaches for the orange juice, though he thinks its shit without champagne or vodka.

 

“You may not wanna. Scotty was drinkin’ outta the carton yesterday morning, before I left,” Sara grunts as Reyes pours himself a half-full glass. Crooking his eyebrow as he sits the carton on the counter, Reyes sips from his glass and smirks. Sara makes a grossed-out face and shudders. “Vile, Vidal, just . . . _ugh_. You need to just jump Scotty, already—preferably when _I’m_ not here—and keep the gross shenanigans between yourselves.”

 

Licking his lips and smiling innocently, Reyes puts his now empty glass in the sink and the orange juice back in the fridge.

 

“Opinion noted. But, I’ll thank you to keep such theories to yourself, Dr. Phil. Scott’ll probably be out of the shower at any second.”

 

Now, _Sara_ smirks, crooked and sharp. The same features that are boyish and mischievous on Scott are rakish and vaguely dangerous on her. “Scott’s still dead-asleep.”

 

Reyes’s brows shoot up, an action Sara mimics mockingly, before turning to her cereal once more.

 

“Then . . . who’s . . . ah,” Reyes mumbles, nodding his understanding. Sara grins at the cereal box, then at the cat.

 

“Fuckin’ pile of hair,” she murmurs almost . . . _fondly_. She hasn’t yet stopped scratching the cat’s stomach, and the animal is just a limp puddle of purring bliss, by this point. Bemused, Reyes, still convinced he’s dreaming, leans against the sink and watches Sara multitask breakfast and bonding with her brother’s cat.

 

A few minutes later, Sara’s almost done with her cereal, the cat is half-asleep, and Reyes is yawning and considering trying for a few more hours of unconsciousness—this time, in his bed—when a tall, buxom tawny-haired woman in slinky, chrome evening wear of a strappy tank-top and knee-length pencil skirt, strides into the kitchen. She’s carrying a matching purse in one hand and stiletto heels in the other. Her long, shapely legs are bare of stockings and lightly-tanned. Her still-damp hair is slightly longer than shoulder-length, and a few shades paler than her striking eyes. Her features are strong and keen, stark and regal.

 

“I may have used up most of your hot water,” she announces in a voice as striking and gorgeous as the rest of her, flushing as a toothy, apologetic grin curves her generous mouth.

 

“Ah, that’s okay, Vetra. Considering how dirty things got last night, it’s to be expected,” Sara purrs in a way that could give Rasputin a run for his money.

 

Sara’s most recent conquest blushes deeper, then focuses on putting on those suicidal-looking heels. Reyes blinks at her, then Sara, who’s finally lost interest in the cat, and is standing up. In her usual at-home wear of dark boxers and a faded blue wifebeater, plus sprung athletic socks, she seems like an odd match for said conquest. Especially when they’re standing in front of each other and their _minimum_ six inches of height difference, as well as their fashion senses and age differences, are thrown into sharper contrast.

 

But whereas a lesser person might be intimidated by such a beautiful woman taking her measure, Sara Ryder merely raises an expectant eyebrow, steps into her lover’s personal space, and slips her arms around the other woman’s waist. When their bodies are pressed together, the blonde gazes down into Sara’s amused face with rather vulnerable and hopeful eyes. Finally, Sara smiles, crooked and almost sheepish.

 

“I had a really good time last night, Vetra,” she says, and the taller woman’s, Vetra’s, smile widens.

 

“Really? Despite the _so-obvious_ set-up by my nosy little sister and your best friend?”

 

“Eh.” Sara shrugs. “Such is the way of all young, infatuated couples. They wanna see _everyone_ they know paired off and mushy together.”

 

Reyes stifles a snort. At twenty-two and nineteen, respectively, Sara’s best friend Liam, and Liam’s girlfriend, Sidera, are barely younger than Sara and her brother.

 

And, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, the Ryder twins are _still_ younger than _Reyes_ , who’s staring down the barrel of the big three-oh.

 

Vetra, despite her sweetly girlish uncertainty around Sara, likely has a few years on Reyes.

 

Sliding her arms reluctantly around Sara’s neck, Vetra takes a slow, steady breath. “So . . . it’d be terrible if we gave those idiots the satisfaction of being right, for once, huh?”

 

“Fucking intolerable,” Sara agrees, leaning in and standing on her tiptoes as Vetra leans down and in. “They’d never let us live it down.”

 

“Nope.” Vetra sighs, her full lips pushing out in a pout. Sara smirks and steals a quick kiss. Then a not-so-quick kiss, one hand coming up to cup Vetra’s face with surprising tenderness.

 

Sara Ryder does _not_ do tender. And certainly not with her conquests. Or with cats.

 

 _Huh_ , Reyes thinks, rather startled. But, ever the soul of discretion, he begins to make his way around the edges of the kitchen, and past the two kissing, clinging, moaning women. As he passes the counter, he catches the fleabag cat staring at him warily, with narrowed eyes and standing-up fur. He sneers at it then pointedly ignores it on his way out of the kitchen.

 

“So, I mean . . . I’m, uh . . . I _gotta_ eat lunch. _You_ gotta eat lunch, too, I presume. Probably at some point, today, even? Doesn’t make it a date if we happen to meet up at a place that serves good chow at approximately the same time, or maybe together? You, uh, like diner-food, right?” Sara breaks the kiss to blurt out on single, long exhalation. Vetra hums then giggles.

 

“Anyplace with a decent bacon cheddar burger, disco fries, onion rings, and chicken fingers, yep.”

 

Reyes, half-way to the door, and just past the focused couple, can all but hear Sara’s impressed blink. “That’s some lunch-spread, Legs.”

 

“Eh. I’m a growing girl.” Vetra’s voice is casual, but a bit nervous. “And I, um, burn up a _lot_ of calories in the course of my day.”

 

“Not to mention last night. _Goddamn_.” Sara still sounds impressed, even though it’s on the back of a slightly dismayed laugh. “Listen, Vetra . . . I’m kinda not caring if Liam and Sid don’t let us live down having great taste in women. Though, my taste is light-years better than _yours_ , I must say.”

 

Vetra blushes again. “If I didn’t know better, Sara Ryder, I’d swear you were angling for some of my future onion rings.”

 

Sara rasps out a low laugh. “Nah. The chicken fingers’re where it’s _at_ , yo. Honey mustard, sriracha, _and_ ketchup, and _BOOM_ , goes the dynamite.”

 

“Wow. That’s just _weird_. And a little gross,” Vetra notes absently, just before she’s humming into another kiss. Reyes, smirking, and unfortunately rather wide awake, now, makes his quiet way back to his bedroom, then to the bathroom, to take his probably cold—but providentially so—shower.

 

Once he’s showered and shaved, and back in his bedroom, loud moans and giggles and gasps can be heard occasionally—then _more_ occasionally—through the wall between his room and Sara’s.

 

Though envious of her track record—Reyes has, mostly, been living like a monk since his doomed marriage to Zia Cordier imploded. He literally hasn’t gotten laid since just before law school consumed both his time and his energy, if not his wishful thinking—he admires Sara’s stamina. And wonders, of course, if Scott has similar stamina. . . .

 

But, for once, tired of masturbating to the Ryder twins—though he _prefers_ Scott as his solo masturbatory aide, he certainly wouldn’t turn down being the focus of a Ryder _team-effort_ —and eating his heart out at the increasingly familiar feelings of loneliness that linger afterwards, Reyes clamps down on his usual self-indulgence and distracts his mind, if nothing else, with random case-law.

 

By the time Reyes, dressed and armed for the law library—since he’s unlikely to get any studying done trying to ignore the free lesbian porn soundtrack one room away, as well as the resulting, reactionary hard-ons that are sure to follow—emerges from his bedroom, he gets a bit of a start.

 

Scott, bleary-eyed and clearly only half-awake, is sitting on the couch, staring at the television, which isn’t on, and petting Rasputin slow and dully, like the cuddling dead. Even so, and even in just his saggy, sprung blue boxers and duct-taped together flip-flops, he still _looks_. . . .

 

“You, er . . . all right, there, Ryder?” Reyes asks, strategically holding his laptop bag at about groin-level, because perhaps distracting himself with case-law hadn’t been as distracting as he’d hoped.

 

Scott blinks at the television, looking both glum and wrecked, and snuggles the awful cat closer to his heart. Rasputin, of course, looks resigned, and doesn’t struggle. He’s even purring, a bit.

 

“I hate my sister, Rey,” Scott decides around a titanic yawn and Reyes, momentarily caught up in the way the hesitant light of early morning kisses Scott’s pale-olive skin and picks out the dark-brown highlights in his messy hair, doesn’t realize he’s closed most of the distance between them until Rasputin hisses lazily, but with clear warning. Scott grumbles and coos at the damned cat, kissing the top of his head.

 

“Hmmm, no hissies . . . we _wuvs_ our Weyes, wemember, Waspy?” he murmurs, then pats the spot on the couch to his right. Reyes, of course, hurries to sit, as always when Scott invites him into his personal bubble. As ever, the law library is forgotten altogether at even a _hint_ that Scott Ryder desires his company.

 

This time, however, he gets the surprise of his life—more surprising, even, than the advent of Rasputin—when Scott mumbles petulantly, leaning into Reyes and laying his head on Reyes’s shoulder with unhidden relief.

 

For nearly a minute, Reyes is utterly frozen, while Scott low-key snuggles against him with near-boneless contentment, and Rasputin hisses and glares at him.

 

“Hmmm. . . .” Scott sighs sleepily, all but melting into Reyes who, for once is torn between the obvious next move—wrapping his arm around Scott’s bare, warm shoulders and sounding the younger man out in a series of similar moves—and continuing to do his impersonation of a deer caught in the headlights of a truck. “You always smell _so_ _gooooood_ , Rey . . . how come you _always_ smell so good. . . ?”

 

“Ah . . . bathing?” Reyes posits, because apparently Zia took all his suave and chill in the divorce. Then, when Scott snickers tiredly around another yawn, Reyes clears his throat. “I’m a vain and conceited man, Ryder. I like to look and smell my best at _all_ times, if possible.”

 

“Mmm . . . whatever you’re doin’, it’s _workin’_ ,” Scott rumbles, his face tucked into Reyes’s neck, his pointy, cool nose pressed to Reyes’s pulse. “You’re, like, the best-smelling, handsomest, most pulled-together guy _ever_ , and you’re smart and funny and cool, too.”

 

“Why, Ryder . . . I already agreed your homicidal fleabag can stay. Buttering me up _now_ is quite unnecessary,” Reyes says quietly, chuckling as his arm, quite done with his brain’s dithering, settles around Scott’s shoulders. This close, under the scent of his own aftershave and cologne, he can smell _Scott’s_ scent, and . . . it’s both mesmerizing and comforting. Right and reassuring. Sweet like caramel, dark like chocolate, and faintly spicy, like nutmeg or cinnamon.

 

Because, _of course_ , Scott Evan Ryder naturally smells _exactly_ like Christmas. . . .

 

Scott chuckles and yawns again, turning his face up a bit, as if to observe Reyes’s jaw. Closing his eyes tight for long moments, Reyes has to fight the urge to look down. He knows that if he doesn’t, he might do something completely outrageous, such as . . . kissing the narrow bridge of Scott’s nose or the fragile skin of his eyelids. Or maybe just staring into those lovely, chasm-deep eyes until even sweet, oblivious Scott can’t help but notice that his roomie’s harboring some rather inconvenient feelings for him.

 

“It’d only be buttering you up if it wasn’t true,” Scott whispers, his words pushes of warm breath on Reyes’s freshly-shaven skin that make him shiver. “But, uh . . . it is. True, I mean. I think you’re . . . amazing.”

 

“Ryder,” Reyes begins uncomfortably, shifting his laptop bag over his lap once more, as inconspicuously as he can. He doesn’t _dare_ open his eyes, now. “Scott. . . .”

 

“I mean, there’s literally no way in which you don’t amaze. Me. _Amaze me_. And probably everyone else, too. But especially me. And I . . . _you_ should _be aware_ of that.”

 

Reyes sighs and swallows the heart that’s taken up residence in his throat. The words that follow are mortifyingly honest and bitter with self-knowledge. “I’m . . . flattered, Ryder. But there’s a lot you don’t know about me. About my life. Things that’d change your opinion of me rather quickly, and not for the better. I’m _not_ a good person. I’m _better_ than I was, even just two years ago. But I’m still . . . a work in progress—very much so. I still have a long way to go, before. . . .”

 

“Before?” Scott’s question is barely audible around a huge yawn, and that warm, firm, caramel-chocolate-spice body sags even more limply against Reyes, even as the cat begins to struggle, at last, probably because of Reyes’s proximity. “’Fore what, Rey. . . ?”

 

“Before. . . .” _Before I’m the kind of decent and admirable person I see reflected back at me when I look into your eyes. Before I’m the sort of person that can be consistently, sincerely, and effortlessly the caliber of man you deserve to have in your life. Before I’m good enough, worthy enough—just_ enough _. Before I’ve_ earned _the esteem in which you hold me and the affection you’ve shone me from nearly the beginning. Before I’m worth even baseline trust, never mind the unshakable confidence in me you’ve shown, as well as the other things I find myself wanting from you. Wanting more than I’ve_ ever _wanted anything else. Before I’m . . ._ someone. . . . “Before, I’m a real boy, I suppose.”

 

“Hmmmm. . . .” Scott hums softly, another rush of air, this one slow and cool. “Real t’ _me_.”

 

Reyes chuckles, resting his head on Scott’s, his arm around the other man’s shoulders tightening, once more without input from his for once silent brain. The rightness and warmth of this moment—the feeling that, with a little extra effort and courage, it could _always_ be like this between them—is scarifying _and_ electrifying.

 

It’s ten quiet, subtly devastating minutes—minutes during which Reyes tries not to listen to Vetra’s muffled, but clearly recognizable, helpless screams throughout a _long_ orgasm that certainly doesn’t make Reyes jealous—later, after Scott has begun to snore softly, his entire body gone slack, that Rasputin makes his escape.

 

Reyes snorts, expecting the cat to go haring off to some hidey-hole. He shifts his laptop bag to the floor as he settles back into the couch with Scott, who burbles something that sounds like: “ _Bad leprechauns! We don’t spit on people!_ ” curls into Reyes even more, and resumes snoring with remarkable dedication and ease.

 

Rasputin, meanwhile, has perched on the coffee table in front of Reyes and is staring across the brief space between them as if at an arch-nemesis. His tail is switching back and forth, and his pale blue eyes are narrowed with suspicion and dislike.

 

Snorting again, Reyes rolls his eyes. “The feeling is entirely mutual, Rasputin. Believe me, I’m not one to get sentimental over the barely sentient, be they animals _or_ children. However, _Scott is_ the sentimental sort. And if there’s one thing _I_ am sentimental about . . . it’s Scott Ryder. So, I’ll tolerate you, for as long as necessary. You needn’t fear or be wary of me, beyond reason. But _don’t_ push me. One spiteful scratch, and I’ll make you disappear like a cheap magic trick. You wouldn’t be the first.”

 

Rasputin’s pale eyes narrow, almost as if he understands—the tone and intent, if not the words—and he hisses at Reyes once more, but his hackles aren’t raised. His claws aren’t even fully distended.

 

 _That’s good enough to be going on with_ , Reyes supposes, smirking and nodding to the cat. “We understand each other perfectly, cat. Now, begone.”

 

Another hiss and Rasputin licks his chops, then his front paws, no longer deigning to acknowledge Reyes’s presence. A minute later, clearly bored, Rasputin hops off the coffee table and wanders off toward the bathroom and the litter box Scott had set up.

 

Reyes’s smirk—not his usual one, but the sort that most who’d ever seen it hadn’t, thereafter, been in any shape to _tell_ about it—slackens into a smile as he nestles against Scott’s warmth and trust. He is at his most protective and possessive, and yet . . . has never felt _himself_ more protected and possessed. Here, in these moments at least and at last, he is _someone_. He is a person who _matters_ to the person who matters _most_.

 

Only one thing could possibly make this moment better. Though . . . Reyes Vidal has never _been_ cherished by anyone, and isn’t certain he’d recognize such a curious and coveted phenomena even if it jumped up and bit him on the nose.

 

But he certainly wouldn’t _mind_ it, either. Not from Scott. Not even if it was just for a _little_ while, and came with ridiculous cooing and assumed rhotacism. . . .

 

He closes his eyes for a few minutes, just to rest them—or means to. But somehow, he drifts off into a dreamless, restful sleep, to the teasing tickle of Scott’s hair on his face and neck, and that sweet-spicy scent in his nose.

 

#  


Reyes gets home late from his Monday evening study group six nights later, dead on his feet, with sand in his eyes and fuzz for a brain.

 

He’s starting to doubt not his own attraction and dedication to the law—a _Vidal_ , drawn to upholding the law is as laughable as a Vidal having a conscience but, then, Reyes always was the funny one of the family—but his sanity in pursuing it as a career.

 

It is, in fact, a full and dramatic one-eighty from the life he had several years and several thousand miles ago. And even if he wanted his _old_ life back—and he does _not_ —it, too, was something that Zia took in the divorce. Along with damn near everything else but for a few particularly well-hidden accounts in the Cayman Islands, and one in Switzerland.

 

But, whatever else she’s taken, Reyes is still _alive_ , almost six years later. And really, it was quite sporting of her to leave him breathing for long enough to shake up, discombobulate, and utterly ramskazzle his _own_ life, without any vengeful interference from her.

 

That she’s contented herself with the business and the bulk of their fortune is rather pleasantly surprising. And though Reyes will probably never be able to set foot in Chile ever again—or several other South American strongholds that used to bear the Vidal brand—he supposes things could _always_ be far, far worse.

 

Though . . . what he walks in on after such a draining evening makes him suddenly doubt that _worse_ _isn’t_ a true and final place instead of a series of perpetually descending nadirs. Because this is worse than losing the business, worse than the divorce, worse than recovering from being gut-shot, that one time.

 

Worse than _anything_.

 

The couple on the couch kiss with a passion Reyes can understand fully, even if he doesn’t approve. Their hands are desperate and rough on each other, their bodies almost prone in the cushions. The larger of the couple is pinning down the smaller with his heavier body and grinding against him with serious intent. The smaller of the couple is moaning into the kiss like he can’t get enough.

 

Shock makes Reyes’s fingers go numb and his laptop falls to the floor with a thunk that would normally be very worrying. The couple on the couch springs upright and apart at the noise. Scott is all guilty eyes and flushed face, but he lingers reluctantly near the other man, who gives Reyes an annoyed, distracted look.

 

“R-Reyes!” Scott blurts out breathlessly through kiss-swollen lips, and after the staring has gone on for quite some time. He inches away down the couch, further from Reyes and from his make-out partner. “I—I—”

 

“Oh, is this your roomie, then? The one who’s . . . _not_ your sister?” the man asks, drawling and nonchalant. He quirks a perfect, toothy smile that poorly hides the measuring challenge in it—Reyes finds such surely baseless confidence almost adorable—his dark eyes scanning Reyes with more than a bit of arrogance.

 

Of course. For, at this moment, Reyes—after an evening spent running his restless fingers through his normally flawless hair, out of sheer frustration with his so-called peers, and several times coming close to almost tearing it out—looks quite disheveled and frazzled. Not to mention as rumpled as only nineteen hours in the same clothes could make one, and sporting a five o’clock shadow fast approaching midnight.

 

Reyes Vidal is . . . less than pulled-together.

 

By comparison, the other man, looks relaxed and fresh in tastefully retro casual-wear: distressed jeans, a vintage-looking Pink Floyd T-shirt, spotless grey hiking boots, and a chunky, gold watch that is both ridiculously expensive and utterly tasteless. He’s as cool as three cucumbers in a bucket of ice. Even his tousled, light-brown hair is somehow perfect, as if he stepped out of _Abercrombie & Fitch_ . . . or perhaps _AE Outfitters_. Mall-boy perfect.

 

Reyes sizes the other man up in an instant and, though he senses no direct competition for Scott’s affections—assuming Reyes himself is even in the running besides in his own desperate mind—that Scott has willingly taken up with such an obvious and unimpressively common playboy, even if just for a night, is . . . disheartening. In a sense that’s so intensely figurative, it may also be literal.

 

He has to actually _fight the urge_ to reach up and touch his chest—fight the urge to examine the hole that must surely be there, for the awful _ache_ that’s radiating from that spot.

 

But Reyes simply does what he’s done his whole life: he brazens it all out as if there isn’t a bloody, gaping hole in his chest where his beating heart used to be just moments ago. This isn’t the first time he’s had his heart ripped out and shown to him, then tossed aside like garbage. It likely won’t be the last.

 

So, instead of reacting with the sort of cold and unsatisfying rage that leads to cold and unsatisfying vengeance—not to mention bullet-riddled bodies, favors called in, and clean-up/cover-up that would just be time-consuming and _exhausting_ in the wake of this new leaf-life Reyes has turned over—the Vidal game-face is his crutch and his foundation. It shores him up, and pours ease and nonchalance into his stiff and aching body. It keeps him composed enough to pick up his laptop bag and saunter toward the pair on the couch, when all he wants to do is edge his way past them and to the safety of his bedroom.

 

“The _roomie_ , yes. That would be me,” he says, flashing his most charming and meaningless smirk, giving the stranger the kind of appraising and smoldering look that’d gotten better men and women naked in less time than it had taken Reyes to _formally_ introduce himself. “Reyes Vidal, at your service.”

 

The stranger’s eyes widen and suddenly he looks younger than Reyes’s original estimate of twenty-five or so, and closer to twenty. Certainly not older than Scott, anyway. He blinks up at Reyes and belatedly takes the hand Reyes holds out, flushing under his even, tanned complexion.

 

“Uh, Bowman. Chaz Bowman.” He chuckles nervously, giving Reyes another once-over that’s not challenging, but assessing. “Scott’s told me quite a bit about you. At least, about your academic career. Dean’s list, huh? Congrats.”

 

Reyes shrugs dismissively, as if to say: _these things sometimes happen . . . who knows why?_ “One hopes, however, that Scott’s unusual discretion hasn’t made me into a _total_ nonentity.” His voice is as even and pleasant as it would be in a courtroom.

 

“Well, Reyes, to be honest . . . I’ve heard your name about campus for a while, here and there . . . assuming there isn’t _another_ Reyes Vidal making a name for himself as a merciless and cunning law-shark that even his professors fear. I, uh, just didn’t think _I’d_ ever run into you. Different majors, and all.” Another nervous sort of chuckle and those smug grey eyes are somewhat uncertain, now.

 

Reyes affects patently false modesty, even as he cranks the reassuring charm up to eleven. Said cranking, at one time, presaged the imminent death and dismemberment of the recipient. Now . . . nothing quite _so_ final and brutish. “Really, I’m . . . not nearly as ruthless and awful a person as rumor and scuttlebutt makes me out to be. Not _nearly_ ,” he lies, in his lowest, most insinuating voice, even as he thinks: _I’m actually far, far worse, Mr. Bowman. . . ._

 

 _Old life, old life . . . in this life, I live_ by _the law, I don’t make my own_. Reyes lets go of Chaz Bowman’s rough, warm hand with a flirt of fingers and a deepening of that smirk.

 

“Huh, well,” Chaz says, his brows lifting in something that’s not quite invitation. “I guess that’s cool. I mean, Scott mentioned all the, uh, cover letter-stuff. Smart and detail-oriented, top of your class, yadda-yadda. All _that_ bullshit.  He just, uh . . . he _didn’t_ mention you’re so . . . heh, easy on the eyes and hot. I’ll admit, if he _had_ , I’d have broken the sound barrier getting us back here to see if all his fangirling was true.”

 

“I . . . I don’t _fangirl_ ,” Scott mumbles, turning red about the face and looking down at his hands miserably. Said hands are folded in his lap and unusually still, for Scott.

 

“It’s adorable that you believe that,” Chaz says indulgently, turning to Scott and stealing a kiss that Scott doesn’t return. Chaz doesn’t seem to notice, however, turning back to Reyes with another considering glance. It’s then that Reyes notices three shallow, red scratches along Chaz’s fashionably stubbly jaw.

 

“I see you’ve met Rasputin,” Reyes notes, his right eyebrow quirking slightly. Scott flushes and frowns, finally meeting Reyes’s eyes. Chaz, however, touches his jaw gingerly, wincing.

 

“Yeah,” he grumbles with some chagrin. “Tried to show the little terror some love and he tried to take my face off.” Chaz snorts then laughs. With a shrug, he stops prodding his jaw and slings an arm around Scott after scooting a bit closer to him. Scott doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t move closer, either. And his gaze is still on Reyes, confused and questioning. “Thank goodness Scott’s got better taste in dudes than his cat does!”

 

“That remains to be seen.” Reyes nods to them and begins to back away from the couch. Scott’s gaze, however, holds his own like glue. “At any rate, I’ve had a long day and tomorrow looks to be longer. Have a . . . productive evening, Chaz. Scott.”

 

Despite having locked gazes with Scott, Reyes can feel the warm, unsubtle weight of _Chaz’s_ consideration and leering like a spotlight.

 

“Y’know . . . there’s room for one more on this sofa, Reyes. Can’t say I’d mind gettin’ to know you _and_ Scott better _concurrently_.” Even Chaz’s _tone_ is unsubtle and leering.

 

Scott’s brow furrows and his eyes flicker with something even Reyes can’t read. But in the end, he supposes it doesn’t matter. It feels like hardly anything does, in the wake of the past few minutes. For Reyes is very tired, all of a sudden. More tired and despondent than even an evening guiding his scattered and fractious study-group can account for.

 

And that hole in Reyes’s chest is growing larger by the second. When he speaks, his voice is brittle . . . colder and harder than it’s had cause to be in years. And certainly not since he let Zia take the business. It’s perhaps _far_ colder and harder than some random-idiot fuckboy—clearly having _no_ idea with whom he’s dealing—deserves, but . . . it is what it is.

 

Reyes is nothing if not a pragmatist.

 

Recalled to the moment, he doesn’t even bother to resurrect his dead-and-gone smirk. “That’s a . . . generous offer, Mr. Bowman, but . . . I don’t share. Ever.”

 

And after another few moments of holding Scott’s unusually unreadable gaze with a probably all-too-readable one of his own, Reyes skirts the couch and makes for his bedroom with as much haste as he deems seemly.

 

Once he shuts his door behind him, he leans on it for several minutes, just trying to breathe around that gaping hole. Then he puts his laptop bag on his desk and crosses his dark bedroom, which is illuminated only by ambient light from the well-lit street, to his neatly-made bed.

 

He’s been sitting, staring off into space at the shadows near the door, elbows on his knees and hands dangling between them, when he notices something warm settling against his left thigh.

 

Surprised, though still rather numb despite that, Reyes glances over and down, and sees a fluffy ball of white fur glommed to his leg, no doubt getting ice-white hair on his dark slacks. There’s a brief flash of disdainful-pale eyes that shine even in the dimness, then it’s all fur and claws as Rasputin stretches, and hooks those claws into Reyes’s slacks—and his thigh—then Reyes’s coverlet, before settling suddenly with a strange, huffy _mwrrrip_.

 

Reyes sighs and decides he must be pathetic, indeed, if Rasputin the Angry Persian thinks he deserves a cuddle.

 

One hand drifts up to the spot on his chest that _should_ be gaping and empty, with his heart’s removal and disposal, but still, somehow, feels whole and solid. His other hand settles on Rasputin’s back. He graciously accepts this suspicious détente and Rasputin’s dubious affections with his usual grace and poise.

 

And for a time, all Reyes has the energy or impetus to do is absently, hopelessly clutch at his unmarred chest and pet the damned cat. Almost anyone looking at him in those moments would find him the very picture of serenity . . . if they didn’t stare for too long into the dark, glittering maelstrom of his gaze.

 

It’s not long before Rasputin starts to purr with enviable contentment.

 

Reyes supposes at least one of them should be.

 

#

 

Reyes doesn’t see Scott again for the better part of a week.

 

Such avoidance, of course, takes careful planning and rather more subterfuge than Reyes would normally expend avoiding any of his relatively few problems. But he’s nothing, if not tenacious, and in the end he doesn’t have to deal with the hole in his chest until the weekend, thanks to all that effort.

 

And, in truth, Scott’s _not_ terribly difficult to avoid, with his classes, internship, and volunteering at the animal shelter rather frequently. It’s so easy to avoid Scott for that six days, that Reyes begins to realize just how far out of his own way he’d been going to maintain a presence in his roommate’s life.

 

It’s a telling truth that Reyes chews on bitterly from the moment he realizes it early Thursday morning—as he slinks out of the apartment extra-early to avoid Sara’s hooded, considering looks and Vetra’s bright, companionable attempts to engage him in small talk at the breakfast table—until nearing midnight on Saturday, when he finishes a long day spent at two different law libraries, a _public_ library, and his favorite café.

 

But he can only stall for so long. Eventually, he has to go home and does. He lets himself into the apartment warily, as he has since walking in on Scott and Chaz Bowman.

 

Darkness greets him, and silence.

 

Frowning, Reyes doesn’t bother with the lights, simply makes his careful, quiet way to the kitchen. Thirty seconds later, he emerges with a mostly full bottle of cola—to go with the mule-kick strong Bocador rum he’d brought home with him—and a glass.

 

Once he gets to his dark bedroom, he doesn’t immediately close the door as, over the past several nights, Rasputin has a habit of scratching at the door to get in if its closed when he wants attention. And Reyes, light sleeper that he is, can't slumber through the scratching nor the pitiful-angry _mrrrows_ of the thwarted beast _._

 

He can only marvel, as he places his laptop bag on his desk, along with the cola and glass, at the cat’s sudden . . . affinity for him. He wouldn’t go so far as to say the animal _likes_ him . . . not the way he clearly adores Sara and, to a lesser extent Vetra. And he doesn’t suffer Reyes’s sporadic, fickle affection endlessly and patiently, the way he endures _Scott’s_ ridiculous cooing and cuddling and baby-talk.

 

But Reyes rather suspects that he and the cat are—and it pains him to admit it . . . makes him free the bottle of Bocador from his laptop bag all the faster—somehow kindred spirits. In some way he can’t or maybe doesn’t want to put his finger on, he and the furbag are simpatico: wary, broken, de-clawed predators past their prime and neatly caught by what _should_ _be_ easy prey, but . . . isn’t. . . .

 

What _should be_ forgettable and disposable, but . . . isn’t. . . .

 

What _should be_ as meaningless and beneath notice as an ant to a god, and yet. . . .

 

. . . and yet, here they _both_ are: reduced to loving, hating, and _craving_ the moments one particularly strange, endearing, all-heart ant-boy decides to spend gentling and somehow _bettering_ them. With little more than open-hearted optimism and _faith_ that they are—perhaps untapped—founts of worth and greatness. Beings who, despite their pasts and thorns and flaws . . . are _worth his love_.

 

Or something like that.

 

Reyes snorts and turns on his desk lamp, wincing as his eyes ache even at the gentle, yellow illumination of a forty-watt bulb. He pours his first drink and it’s already at a higher Bocador-to-cola ratio than is wise, but he has nowhere to go on Sunday, and nothing to do but nurse an epic and well-earned hangover.

 

“Rasputin,” he calls softly, in case either of his roommates are home asleep—doubtful, as Sara’s likely spending the night at the fancy high-rise Vetra and Sidera Nyx call home, and Scott’s probably . . . with Chaz or someone disappointingly similar—knowing that the cat will come or not as he sees fit, though probably not before the first drink is half-done. And, indeed, moments after Reyes calls for the cat, his drink is one-third gone. “Here, you vituperative, indolent, ungrateful bag of fur and claws. . . .”

 

Reyes finishes the rest of his drink in one long swallow that burns his throat and muddies his already blurry-tired mind. He winces and swears when he realizes he’s forgotten to bring a tray of ice cubes, then shrugs. He can rough it for a night, he decides. Worse things have happened in his life, lately, than some tepid rum-and-colas.

 

He makes himself another that he also finishes quickly, then a third, with hands that are markedly less precise than usual.

 

Smiling ruefully, he further decides that he’ll nurse this one, and forsakes his swivel chair for his bed. Once settled with an exhausted groan, he takes a long sip of his drink, then places the glass on his night table, closer to the clock-radio than the edge.  After a long and meandering yawn, he sighs, leaning forward with elbows on his knees and hands dangling between them.

 

He closes eyes that burn slightly, from weariness and strain, and something that in any other man might be repressed tears of frustration and despair. But in Reyes—being _who_ he is and what he _was_ —can _only_ be chalked up to too many late nights spent studying and reading and not sleeping.

 

It’s less than a minute before a familiar, fuzzy weight settles against his leg, and he huffs and smirks, automatically reaching out to pet the cat’s fluffy back. He doesn’t even bother to lament over the drifts of white hair that’ll be all over his coverlet—and him—in the morning.

 

Really, it just doesn’t matter.

 

The cat’s usual contented purrs and rumbling under Reyes’s absent hand is pleasantly diverting, after a fashion. Reyes is almost relaxed and dozing when a warm hand settles high on his back, between his shoulder-blades.

 

Startled to his feet and very nearly sober, Reyes whirls around as Rasputin makes an offended, chastising _mrrrowp!_ and bolts off the bed—presumably out the door and for less exciting locales.

 

Lying in Reyes’s bed, on the dark coverlet, in a pair of his own grey sweatpants, and Reyes’s favorite old pullover V-neck, is a sleepy-looking Scott Ryder, rubbing his big, dark, blink-y eyes and smiling sheepishly.

 

“Hey. You’re home late,” he yawns, cavernous, but quiet. Reyes, his heart still racing—the first time he’s really _felt_ it since Monday night, rather than the hole that’d seemed to take its place—can only stare for long moments as Scott sits up a bit, his eyes shining and hopeful as he watches Reyes watch him.

 

“You’re . . . in my bedroom,” Reyes says when he finally _can_ say something. He immediately regrets the inanity of the statement, however.

 

Scott grins and chuckles, running a hand over his spiky-unruly bedhead. “Well-spotted, Clarence Darrow. Any law firm’s gonna be lucky to have a cracker-jack like _you_.”

 

Reyes huffs and takes a deep steadying breath that he lets out slowly. “ _Why_ are you in my bedroom, Ryder?” _And wearing my sweater?_ It goes without saying, but only because Reyes can’t imagine his voice wouldn’t give out or tremble in some mortifying, mid-puberty way, if he attempted to say it aloud.

 

Scott’s eyes flicker with momentary reluctance and he looks down for a few seconds. Then, he meets Reyes’s gaze again, brighter than ever. “Couldn’t find Raspy-Waspy all day. Called Sara a few hours ago, frantic, and she suggested I look in here since, as she put it, _Vidal and the hair-pile are homies, now_.” Crooking an adorably bemused smile, Scott shrugs. “She was, as always, right. Raspy was asleep, dead-center of your bed, uh . . . on top of your sweater.”

 

And with that, Scott plucks at the front of the green pullover, which is rather long and baggy on his slimmer, shorter frame. He shoves the sleeves up his wiry forearms, which are pale under their light blanketing of dark hair. For a brief, but still too-long span, Reyes can only savor the graceful gesture and the skin that it reveals.

 

“None of which explains why you’re still in my bedroom hours later, by your own admission,” he notes, though it’s difficult to focus between the sludge in his brain, the alcohol in his veins, and the brilliant intensity of Scott’s wide eyes and undivided attention. “And wearing a garment that belongs to neither you, nor the menace that claimed it as a mattress.”

 

Scott’s eyes narrow slightly with repressed laughter. “Well, I’m wearing the sweater partly because it got chilly in this ice-cave you call a bedroom, while I was waiting for you. And partly because, like Raspy, I, uh . . . find things that smell like you . . . comforting.” So saying, he snuggles down into the sweater like it’s a quilt, looking smaller and younger than he ever has.

 

Reyes flushes and looks away. Somehow, seeing Scott like this . . . so easy and open and sincere . . . is more affecting and painful than seeing him getting pawed at by Chaz Bowman.

 

The silence between them stretches out, awkward and expectant, for more than a minute, but less than two. Scott’s the one to break it, and that startles Reyes into looking up at him again.

 

“Aren’tcha gonna ask why I was waiting for you, Rey?” he asks softly, nervous and timid like he almost never is. That smile is gone, but the hope in his dark, bright eyes is not. It’s that hope that Reyes feels laid bare by and has to steel himself against—has to reprimand his incautious heart about racing over.

 

“I imagine a more apropos question might be why you aren’t with Chaz Bowman again, or someone else of that . . . ilk,” he says with a lack of curiosity that’s so flawless and impersonal, it rings hollow and false in his own ears. But Scott, nonetheless, flinches and looks down.

 

“I wasn’t _with_ Chaz at all, Reyes.” Scott’s brow furrows and he risks a look up that’s trembling and pleading and brave. “I mean, we were _kinda_ in meltdown-mode when you came home Monday, but . . . even if you hadn’t, I don’t think I’d have gone through with it.”

 

Ignoring the sudden lift-off of his hasty heart—complete with afterburners and pyrotechnics—Reyes frowns and swallows around a lump in his throat. “And why do you think that?”

 

Scott crooks another half-smile, this one self-deprecating and embarrassed. “Because the only way I could even _deal_ with having him all over me like a pervy octopus was to pretend he was the guy I _actually_ want. But . . . the pretending wasn’t going so well. I mean, my body was on-board, but the rest of me was . . . not.”

 

Another silence spins out. This time, Reyes is the one to break it, after closing the short distance between himself and his bed, and sitting once more, arms on his knees. He’s tired and confused, and wavering between sky-high hope and his usual grim realism.

 

“I’m sure if you’d really put that creative mind of yours to the task, Ryder. . . .” he trails off, then shivers when Scott moves, sitting up and shifting closer. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his thigh pressing close against Reyes’s, and he wraps his arms around Reyes’s left one, laying his head on Reyes’s shoulder like he had almost two weeks ago.

 

(Reyes had slept until noon that day, and woken up to no Scott—all the younger man’s classes were _afternoon_ classes, as he was _not_ functional before eleven a.m.—but his own coverlet draped over him and tucked around him. And Rasputin had been watching him intently from Scott’s former spot on the couch, grooming his paws enigmatically. The next time Reyes had seen Scott, almost a day later, neither of them had brought up their impromptu nap together.)

 

“Still wouldn’t have worked,” Scott sighs softly now, though not quite sadly. “The pretending. I know, because . . . I’ve tried. _Been trying_ for over a year, now. Chaz isn’t the first. Just the latest.”

 

Reyes is . . . torn between consternation and elation.

 

“A . . . a year,” he settles on saying, at last. Scott chuckles ruefully.

 

“At _least_. This, uh, guy I’ve got it for . . . I’ve got it for him _real_ _bad_ , Rey. And every guy I’ve been out with since damn near the day I met _this_ guy, I’ve compared to _him_. And those _other_ guys _never_ stack up. Never.” Scott heaves another sigh, this one shaking. “I’m in so deep, I don’t even remember what the sky looks like anymore. Bitch of it is, though . . . I don’t really miss it. Because being around this guy . . . even just napping with him . . . feels like flying.”

 

The silence that follows that is loud with the thudding of Reyes’s silly, stupid heart and his limping, sluggish thoughts.

 

“This man you . . . care for—”

 

“Love,” Scott corrects solemnly, and Reyes can feel that dark, earnest gaze on his face, but doesn’t dare meet it. “I _love_ him. More and more, every day.”

 

“He . . . have you told him how you feel?”

 

Scott groans. “No. Maybe. Sorta?” Another snort and a laugh. “I mean, I’ve tried. _Am trying_. The thing is, I’m not just in love with him, I think he’s . . . such an amazing person, that the idea of risking our friendship has been . . . horrifying to me, until recently. The prospect of losing his confidence, fondness, and respect scared me more than anything ever has,” he admits quietly.

 

“Until recently,” Reyes echoes, not quite a question. Scott shifts closer to him and holds his arm tighter.

 

“Recently, I . . . let’s just say since the Chad Bowman-Incident, I’ve been having some lightbulb moments. Not to mention getting some solicited _and_ unsolicited advice from pretty much everyone I know. Some of them several times over,” Scott says wryly. “I’m starting to think that maybe . . . maybe this guy I’m bonkers over might be a little bonkers over me, too? I mean, I _hope_. ‘Cause I’ve literally never seen _anyone_ with as much murder in their eyes as he had, when he walked in on me getting felt-up by a random, handsy loser who followed me home. If looks could kill, said loser would probably be on a slab in the morgue and _my_ _guy’d_ probably be in county lock-up waiting for a bail hearing.”

 

Reyes barks a surprised laugh, then swallows around a suddenly dry and ticking throat. “And if he _is_ bonkers over you, too? If he’s been eating his heart out over you from the beginning and is too _shit-scared_ to admit it to you even _now_ . . . what would you do? What _will_ you do, Ryder?”

 

“Well,” Scott says, nervous and uncertain again, but _brave_ again, too. _Always_ brave. His cool, gentle hand cups the right side of Reyes’s face, his thumb stroking/rasping the stubble on Reyes’s jaw. At last, Reyes finds it in himself to look down into Scott’s shining, vulnerable eyes. He’s always equated those eyes, at least to himself, with drowning, or falling into an abyss. But, he now realizes, that _flying_ is _also_ an apt metaphor, as well. If one has the luxury of certain perspective, that is.

 

“Scott,” he murmurs in a thick, anxious croak, then can’t go on.

 

“I . . . I guess I’ll just have to be courageous for the both of us. Me, _and_ my guy,” Scott whispers, leaning up slightly to press a tender kiss to Reyes’s chin, then up a bit more. Reyes lifts his shaking right hand and brushes reverent, but wary fingers down the left side of Scott’s face with a relieved and grateful moan. The entire world seems to spin and pitch and yaw, but for those fathoms-deep eyes. Those eyes are Reyes's stability and his center. “But it’d, uh, be _really_ romantic if my guy maybe met me halfw— _mmph!_ ”

 

#

 

Reyes Vidal opens his eyes on Sunday, closer to midday than to sunrise, to an astonishing lack of hangover and a warm, pliant Christmas-smelling body in his arms. Tucked into and pressed against him from head to mid-calf, and radiating extravagant heat and deep contentment.

 

Yawning, Reyes wriggles his itchy-tickled nose and squints into the spiky-messy hair he’s buried face-first in, then smiles. He shifts a bit—slow, so as not to disturb his bedmate’s rest—until he’s nuzzling the warm, smooth skin of cheek, jaw, and neck.

 

Scott sighs in his sleep and mumbles something about kiwis and Valhalla. Snuggles back into Reyes some more, then sighs again like a satisfied kitten.

 

Reyes smirks, though it feels more like a smile, and closes his eyes again, settling back into that spiky-itchy-tickly hair. He’s not _as_ comfortable as he could be, of course, having drifted off slowly on top of the coverlet, fully clothed, with an also-clothed Scott in his arms, squirming and wriggling between yawns and endearments. Not to mention that despite his back being to the sunlit, east-facing window, that side of Reyes is still quite chilled, even as his front, exposed as it is to a man who apparently throws off heat like small reactor, is practically stifling-hot.

 

No, Reyes isn’t _as_ comfortable as he _could_ be . . . just _more_ comfortable than he’s ever been. And that’s entirely good enough to be going on with.

 

It is, in fact, perfect.

 

With a happy, bordering on smug hum, Reyes lets himself slowly sink back into sleep. He’s more than half-gone, when he hears that peremptory _mwrrrip?_ from the direction of the door to his bedroom, which is apparently still ajar.

 

Reyes sighs, feeling rather magnanimous despite that. “Fine, then,” he mutters, in Scott’s hair. “Just _don’t_ get used to sharing a bed with us _too_ often, Raspy-Waspy.”

 

 _Mrrrow!_ comes from much closer, and a moment later a light, but noticeable weight lands on the bed. Shortly, something warm, fuzzy, and claws-y tucks itself against Scott’s waist—and Reyes’s arm, which is draped over Scott, possessive and protective—purring so hard, it's practically vibrating.

 

Reyes wiggles his fingers sleepily, scratching between Rasputin’s ears. The cat turns and nips at his fingertips irritably, hissing a warning that _this morning_ , he _does not_ wish to be touched there. Reyes huffs and flattens his hand higher up Scott’s torso, just under his ribs.

 

“Moody fluffball. _That’s_ a freebie, but _only_ because I’m feeling so disgustingly sappy and generous today.”

 

Rasputin sniffs and bats at his forearm, and Scott moans sweetly, shifting back into Reyes even more.

 

“Mmm . . . my _Weyes_ _wuvs_ his widdle Waspy, _too_. . . .” he burble-slurs happily, rising briefly from the depths of his slumber. “My sweet, pretty boys. . . .”

 

“Shut up and go back to sleep, Ryder,” Reyes commands, haughty and blushing, as Rasputin kneads and hooks relatively playful claws into his wrist. But Scott’s _already_ breathing deep again.

 

A few minutes later, despite the cat’s persistent kneading, so is Reyes.

 

And, once he’s satisfied with the marked and scratched-up state of Reyes’s wrist and forearm, Rasputin yawns then closes his eyes for his _third_ nap since sun-up . . . and arguably the best. And that's saying something.

 

As forever-homes go, they've both had far worse. But none better.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> stitchcasual's Prompt: _what about person a springs a pet on person b? That's all I got right now, my kitty is sitting on me._
> 
> Thanks to stitch and to Hotot for the purrrrrfect beta.
> 
> (See what I did, there? :-)
> 
> Say HEY on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
